I returned home. The length of that sentence does no justice to the journey, which takes me through Ascot station. There are two completely distinct types of people who go to the races at Ascot. There are the ones who go to see the races, who have a copy of the racing post under one arm, ancient and battered but highly efficient binoculars, and a deep knowledge of such things as form, going, owners, breeders, trainers, jockeys, horses and bookies. Then there are the ones who go to see and be seen by each other, who have absurdly ornate hats designed to defeat the most efficient of binoculars, have a copy of Tatler or Hello under one arm, and a deep knowledge of current affairs ("She's sleeping with whom?"). Unfortunately neither group is competent to stay behind the yellow line at the platform, and so from our red signal twenty yards short of the station, we can hear the announcements: "Will passengers please step back from the platform edge ...".
Eventually I get home, sort myself out, wrap the present, and set out for the reception. I walk in the door and the DJ looks at me, reaches for the microphone and announces that the buffet is now open. Coincidence? I couldn't say.
In the usual way at weddings, all the nicest-looking girls are either already paired up, too young, lesbian, or closely related to me. I spend the evening doing wedding-reception type stuff -- sat around talking to people, working mother's digital camera for her, assisting the nephews on the who-wants-to-be-a-millionaire machine, eating.
As predicted, my father had scarpered immediately after the ceremony in an effort to avoid meeting anyone. My mother tells me that it was like meeting a complete stranger and that there was no drama at all. Probably just as well.
I was going to show you pictures from mother's camera but she took it with her. However one of the other guests (Mark Growolski) took some pictures. Narrowbanders beware -- they're a couple of hundred Kb each and 1280x960 or 960x1280.
Amusing difference in height between John and Oli.
Put her down and cut the flaming cake, will you.
Richard (another brother) and I comparing beards.
I don't have to stop just because I'm married.
My mother and her boyfriend.
Maybe later I'll crop or resize and re-write this entry and the links to suit.